


il cuore grande, ti fà tremar le gambe

by brampersandon



Category: Football RPF
Genre: A.C. Milan, M/M, Torino F.C.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 09:40:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14376120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/pseuds/brampersandon
Summary: Turin didn't raise him, but it did take him in as one of its own and hand him the honor of guarding it. There's a certain sort of reverence he feels when he sees photos on social media of the Milan players and fans rolling into their city. Like his heart's fit to burst with pride, like he's the one to stand at the gates and say,come in, welcome to our home, we've been waiting for you.





	il cuore grande, ti fà tremar le gambe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [selenedaydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/selenedaydreams/gifts).



> april 2018, or: the time i just kept writing post-match consolation banging instead of any of the things i actually need to write.
> 
> for teo, who encourages all my worst ideas. ♥ also ended up being written for the [april prompt set](https://footballprompts.tumblr.com/post/172469027620/april-prompt-set), using word and trope prompts.
> 
> title comes from [torino's anthem](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w98cUsIDpYY), which is a bop.

Even in the middle of the week, Turin buzzes electric on the morning of a matchday. Belotti loves rolling out of bed to that feeling, that anticipatory hum in the air, that waiting for something, _something_ to change. The world shifts minutely after each match, it never looks quite the same in the evening as it did upon waking.

He makes his coffee, drinks it out on the back porch with Angi as he reads through his daily devotion. He tells himself matches at home are his favorite for all the usual reasons: Being able to stick to his morning ritual without anyone interrupting him, kissing his fingertips before pressing them down into the grass, playing in front of their fans, on and on. But there's something else there, something he hasn't been able to shake since he was a child sitting next to his brother in the Atleti Azzurri d'Italia, marveling at the fact that these men traveled all the way to play right here, right next to his childhood home. 

Turin didn't raise him, but it did take him in as one of its own and hand him the honor of guarding it. There's a certain sort of reverence he feels when he sees photos on social media of the Milan players and fans rolling into their city. Like his heart's fit to burst with pride, like he's the one to stand at the gates and say, _come in, welcome to our home, we've been waiting for you_.

 

 

 

 

In another world, he aims for the lower left corner, sinks the ball coolly into the back of the net. It's only one goal, but it's so early on it tastes like hope, and that's all he's ever wanted to give them. Adem catches him in his arms, yells something hot against his ear. He runs toward Curva Maratona with his head held high, and they sing for him, and he sings back: _Di questa squadra io sono il capitano, undici cuori tenuti per la mano_.

In another world.

In this one he sets his sights just a little too high, and even though he's sent Gigio the wrong way the ball still pings off the crossbar. The only noise from the crowd is a swell of disappointment, and then they're swept down the pitch as Milan try to counter.

In this one they don't manage to do any better than the awful status quo they've set for themselves this season. Milan get an early goal in, they tie it up after the half, and then— nothing more from either side. At the final whistle, Belotti squeezes his eyes shut and tugs at his own cheeks. At some point he begins to wonder if an endless string of unsatisfying draws is really better than getting ground down into the dirt match after match. Maybe they'd prefer to lose it all and have to fight their way up from the bottom of the table. Maybe.

 

 

 

 

"You had me, you know," Gigio tells him when he folds him into his arms, stooped down so he can tuck his face against Belotti's neck. 

Belotti's painfully fond of him, always has been, and it makes him smile despite the result. "I always do," he mutters into the hard muscle of Gigio's bicep. "I know your tricks."

It's easy, the gentle back-and-forth they fall into; easier than facing anyone else, at any rate. He has to disentangle himself when Salvatore comes up, and Belotti wants to tell him he's sorry — wants to tell all of them he's sorry — even though he knows it's stupid and self-pitying and so beyond the point. Instead he only tucks into his chest for a quick hug, mutters some pleasantries and lets him move onto talking with Gigio.

 

 

 

 

"You wanna go out?"

He glances up even though he doesn't have to to know who's asking. Daniele always asks. And nine times out of ten, Belotti says: "No, I'm just going to head home."

Daniele gives him a defeated little kick to his shin before turning back to his own locker. "And do _what_?"

"Rest," Belotti shrugs. "You should too." It's useless, they have this conversation after every frustrating result. Daniele wants to drag him out to dinner, for drinks, maybe some dancing, wants to indulge and forget— but Belotti's never been like that. He loves him desperately, they showed up in Turin together and he's sure they'll leave together too, but they run at different speeds. And that's fine. It's all fine.

"Next time," Daniele tells him, as usual.

"Next time," he agrees, and it isn't true, and they both know it.

 

 

 

 

Belotti's comfort is in routine.

The drive home, the way he can find his house key on the ring without looking, the skittering sound of Angi running down the stairs to greet him — this is what grounds him. He drops his kit bag off in his room and grabs a bottle of water before taking her out for a walk. He laps the neighborhood three times, every time. He fixes himself a simple dinner, gets out an ice pack for a lingering soreness in his right thigh, takes out his contacts, slips on his glasses, and curls into the couch.

He's sure someone like Daniele (who sends a snap of his ridiculous dinner spread, Iago on the other side of the table and two glasses of wine as big as their heads) would think it horribly boring, but— this is what he does, what he's always done. 

Even with everything done down to the letter to calm himself, his mind still races. Belotti pats the couch until Angi jumps up, gathers her to his chest and lets his eyes slip shut. The television is a pleasant hum in the background as he lets everything settle in. 

So, they're not going to win the league. That much has been obvious for a long while, but Belotti still dreams of it when it's early on and still within reach. They're not going to get a spot for European competition either. Maybe if they'd been able to beat Milan today they could've begun that slow climb. If they hadn't lost their heads and conceded so early. If he hadn't overshot his penalty. If.

He's so wrapped up in re-treading those paths that he only notices the persistent knocking at the door when Angi scrambles out of his arms. Stupidly, his first thought is _well, I'm about to be robbed_ , even as he gets up to check who's at the door. He doesn't even have the sense to grab something heavy in case he's right. He's exhausted, worn down from the match and from stressing himself out about the result—

He's exhausted, which must be why he sees Leo through the peephole. A mirage, or something. He fell asleep on the couch and he's having a strange dream.

"Gallo," Leo calls from outside, "Open up."

It's not the first time he's shown up at Belotti's door, given how often he's back in Turin. It _is_ the first time he's done it after a match. Belotti wrenches the door open and stares at him blankly. "Why didn't you go back to Milan?"

"Nice to see you too," Leo snorts. He has his fist wrapped loose around the neck of a champagne bottle and holds it up to give it a little shake. "Let me in?"

 

 

 

 

It's not like they have anything to celebrate — _technically we both won_ , Leo shrugs as he uncorks the bottle, _or both lost, I guess_ — but they drink to it anyway. He says he had business to attend to after the match, which is what he always says when he winds up on Belotti's doorstep at odd hours on nights he definitely shouldn't be in Turin. He says the champagne was a gift and he didn't want to bring it back to Milan to drink alone. Belotti doesn't ask from who. He doesn't have to.

"That was a shit match," he says plainly, relaxed against the couch with drink in hand. "On both sides, it was—" Leo gestures vaguely with his free hand before running it over his face. He looks just as tired as Belotti feels. Maybe more.

The champagne slides sweet down his throat and he knows it's just going to make him even sleepier. "We did our best," he tries, hates how spineless it sounds. He's never been good at criticizing his own team. "We've been trying all season."

Leo can see how much it deflates him and he backs up a little, "No, you guys were better than us, just unlucky." Belotti offers him a small smile over the rim of his glass. It helps to hear, even if it isn't true.

They spend a long while in companionate silence, watching the history program Belotti put on and topping off their glasses every so often. Belotti stretches out on the couch, leans into the warmth that radiates from Leo. It's a strange sort of friendship, one that might have never crossed over to anything else had Leo not left Turin. Belotti knows his house is the only neutral ground left for Leo in the city, and he doesn't mind him dropping in like this. He might not be the type to go out and blow off steam (another snap, this time from Iago, Daniele behind him with both arms around his waist rocking slightly off-beat to the music in the background of the bar) but he never turns down company.

 

 

 

 

It helps, of course, that by the time there's only dregs left at the bottom of the bottle, Leo's offered to rub out the ache in his thigh, because he's never been subtle a day in his life. Belotti lets him, lets Leo position himself between his spread legs on the couch and smooth his palms up his thigh. To his credit, he does genuinely seem to want to help, pressing both thumbs into the muscle knot there until Belotti stops wincing and relaxes into it. He watches intently, features drawn down in seriousness as he lets up on the pressure and goes back to running his hands firmly up the length of his leg.

Belotti lets his head loll back against the couch. "You're good at that."

"Just trying to help. They don't give you physios at Torino?"

"Shut up," he laughs, lazy and unwound. He grins at Leo, his eyes half-lidded. "They do. I was just going to ice it and hope for the best."

"Gallo Belotti, the martyr." Leo focuses on the knot again, keeps his eyes trained down when he says in a poor imitation of nonchalance, "Still thinking of leaving?"

He sucks in a sharp breath, can pretend it's from the spike of good pain rather than the question. "No. I don't know. It's on the table, you know, but I—" He doesn't know how to finish that thought, especially not to Leo, because what is there to say? _But I love it here_. Yeah, well, so did he. Sometimes you have to cut yourself off from what you love and make the move that's right for you. But it's not like Torino is doing _that_ poorly, and the board certainly doesn't want him to leave, and he has a responsibility— these are the same thoughts he follows every single night as he tries to sleep. Leo looks up at him, waiting for him to tie up that hanging line, so Belotti settles for, "I'm not going to England, at least. I know that."

He laughs, jostles Belotti's leg and lets his hands rest against it. "Well. If you ever need to talk through it."

"I know," he says. "Thanks." He really means it.

They could end the night there. He could offer Leo the guest room where his mom always stays when she drives over once a month, he could tuck himself into bed tipsier than he meant to be and leave it there.

Or he could sit up to face him properly, curl his other leg around Leo's waist and wait for the inevitable.

He's a good man, gentler than anyone would expect. He always cups Belotti's face in both hands and kisses the corner of his lips first, like he's waiting for permission. Belotti gives it, leans in to kiss him properly, wraps both arms around his neck and lays back again to pull Leo on top of him.

It nags at him still, even with Leo's hands wandering up his shirt, even with his mouth at his jawline. Belotti runs an absent kiss over his hair. "I don't _want_ to leave," he mumbles, still picking at that stray thread. 

"I know you don't." His words are warm against his skin, kind but matter-of-fact. "Everyone knows that, Belotti."

"I just—" His breath catches in his throat when Leo rocks their hips together. "I just want to do better. Here."

"I know. Hey." Leo sits up again, lays a hand against his cheek and stares him down. "Nobody sent me to, like, lure you away or anything— I was just asking."

Belotti nods. Even through a champagne haze, he knows that. It's just that he can never explain the clutching in his chest when he talks about leaving Torino, the ice cold grip around his heart when he even thinks about it. They could languish in the middle of the table season after season — he'd still be right there with them, so long as they'll have him. There's nothing anyone could do to drive him out, he's so sure of it.

He wonders if Leo ever felt that way about his own club.

"Do you want me to stay tonight?" Leo asks then, still watching him hawkishly.

The only answer Belotti gives is the turn of his head, the parting of his lips as he takes Leo's thumb into his mouth.

 

 

 

 

Upstairs he lets Leo undress and curve over him, mouth at his cock and twist his fingers inside him until he's desperate for it. Embarrassingly, they have to stop for a few minutes while Angi scratches at the door; Belotti gets up on shaky legs to go put her to bed, curses himself quietly for not thinking to do that before. When he gets back, Leo's sprawled against the bed stroking himself slowly, the biggest grin on his face.

"What," Belotti mumbles shyly, feeling dumb and naked and still painfully turned on.

Leo only pats the bed next to him. "Come here," he says.

Belotti does, and Leo's rolling him onto his side in an instant, pressing flush against his back and replacing his slick fingers. It's— nice, it always is, not having to think, just letting someone else take care of him. Leo's not the only one who does this from time to time, but when his arm is wrapped this tight around his chest and he's biting at the soft skin just below his ear, Belotti thinks he's his favorite one.

He's craning his neck to turn back and kiss him when Leo hooks a hand under his right thigh and lifts it just enough for him to slide in comfortably. It draws a raw, broken sound out of him and he breaks away from Leo just enough to turn his face against the pillows.

Leo gives his thigh a squeeze. "All good?" When Belotti nods and blindly grapples to hold his free hand, Leo gets the hint and rolls his hips. It's like that, deep and slow and lazy, Belotti gasping against the bed and letting himself forget— all of it. The match, the season, the uncertain summer ahead. He lets it all go, focuses on pushing back against Leo, forward into his own hand, trying not to lose it too soon.

"Gallo," Leo hisses against his ear as his hips start to stutter and slam against him. He likes that, he likes being _Il Gallo, capitano, cuore di Torino_ , it makes him feel like he takes up more space in the world than he actually does. He nods again and Leo keeps repeating it, tightens his grip against Belotti and fucks into him hard enough that he stops thinking entirely. When Leo's mouth runs hot and wet against the cross outlined on the back of his neck, a shudder rips through Belotti's entire body, and he comes like that, half-held against the bed, mind blissfully blank.

All told, he has no idea how long it is before Leo pulls out, and he lets out the most pathetic noise when he finally does. "I'm not going anywhere," he says with a breathless little laugh. "Don't move."

Couldn't if he wanted to. He lays there, placid and spent, while Leo cleans the both of them up and pulls the haphazard covers back onto the bed. He tucks them around Belotti first before crawling in next to him and turning the light out.

"Why didn't you go back to Milan," Belotti repeats, barely enough energy in his voice to make it a proper question. He yawns and rolls onto his other side with great effort so he can rest an arm over Leo's chest.

"Missing a penalty and hating yourself for it? That's my thing," Leo drawls. "Figured you'd want someone around."

He's not wrong, and it would be easy for Belotti to hate what an easy mark he is, but instead he's grateful for it. He drops a sleepy kiss onto Leo's shoulder and finally, finally closes his eyes.

 

 

 

 

The morning after a match is more subdued, like the city is in recovery, but she still sings softly as she rouses with the sunrise. Belotti wakes up to find Leo already gone, a hastily scribbled note about needing to be back in Milan for training, _no rest for the wicked and all_. It's what he expected. It's fine. It gives him the opportunity to pad through the house and find Angi, bring her outside to run around while he sips his coffee and turns to a new day in his devotional. The world's not too different. He's still here.

**Author's Note:**

> \- this ended up being way more involved than i thought it would be, and waaaay more intense with belotti/torino feelings, so. if it interests you at all, here's a [super comprehensive breakdown](https://www.theguardian.com/football/the-gentleman-ultra/2015/apr/16/torino-serie-a-alternative-club-guide-lentini) of what torino is All About. 
> 
> \- belotti [grew up supporting milan](https://www.football-italia.net/90117/belotti-reveals-milan-love) and the rumor mill is indeed [churning away about his potential move](http://www.goal.com/en-us/news/ac-milan-still-hopeful-of-landing-belotti-despite-failed/1ekdnbptwvawu17mhzc12nsdp0). 
> 
> \- [belotti and baselli](https://www.instagram.com/p/BhKWn37npEG/?hl=en&taken-by=baselli)
> 
> \- [belotti and his dog angi](https://www.instagram.com/p/BB3B1eutV5v/?hl=en&taken-by=gallobelotti)
> 
> \- [belotti and leo because only god can judge me](https://twitter.com/bonucci_leo19/status/986725660038258689)
> 
> \- obviously this is a no wags/kids verse like... everything i write... but since it's adorable i will point out that belotti and leo really are buddies, primarily because leo's oldest son is a torino fan and belotti is the [best](https://www.instagram.com/p/BUh8SqXlU4u/?hl=en&taken-by=bonuccileo19) [dude](http://strikerbacks.tumblr.com/post/168350397779) ever. 
> 
> \- thank you for reading!! ♥ as always, you can find me on [tumblr](http://strikerbacks.tumblr.com) if you're so inclined.


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